It's not me (in your head they're fighting)
by ibuzoo
Summary: "What's your name?", the girl with the bushy hair asks again, her voice severe and rough without any emotion at all and he spits between blood-bitten lips, rasps his voice like emery paper, "Voldemort." She pushes a button and his world descends into darkness again.


**It's not me (in your head they're fighting)**

**Prompt:** Pain

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Psychological Torture / Canon Divergence / Scientist AU / Psychological Anguish

**Word count:** 1482

**A/N:** Tom really suffers in this one and Hermione is the one who puts him through the torture - it's like he's prisoner and the scientists make him relive his most gruesome memories. It's awfully painful and the Tomione part is subliminal but there.

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

There's a bright white neon bulb that casts unnatural shades of blue on sterile walls and metallic instruments; it catches in dark hazelnut curls that fall in wild cascades around a feminine face with healthy rosy cheeks and a pointed nose, small and delicate. Her eyes are hidden behind a small pair of glasses but he can see daps of caramel and walnut in her brown and when she speaks, her shoulders move under the thick fabric of her white doctor tunic.

"Hello Tom."

"My name is Voldemort," he spits, accusing and aggressive and there's something hard in her eyes, something angry and a second later she pushes a button on an engine.

His world starts to spin.

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

Tom opens his eyes.

Data. Files. Pictures. Wool's Orphanage. Two children. A Cave. Water. Cliffs. Dennis Bishop's body that turns red and blue and different shades of violet while he desperately tries to gasp for air while his windpipe shuts itself closer and closer, his lungs contracting. Little Amy Benson's face that transforms itself in amaranth and cerise while thick salty tears moisturise her cheeks and she begs and screams as the water grasps violently at her body, pushes her down in the sea again and again. Scratch marks of bleeding fingertips from scraping over rocks and soil and sand.

Then he's in the laboratory again, bright white neon light and he's screaming, raging while pain shoots through his head in waves.

_(for the fragment of a second he can see her face, round and healthy with rosy cheeks, before an injection puts him back to sleep)_

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

"What's your name?", the girl with the bushy hair asks again, her voice severe and rough without any emotion at all and he spits between blood-bitten lips, rasps his voice like emery paper, "Voldemort."

She pushes a button and his world descends into darkness again.

* * *

><p><strong>iii.<strong>

Tom opens his eyes.

Data. Files. Pictures. A girl. A boy. Girl's lavatory. A dungeon. A chamber. Basilisk. Slytherin. Myrtle's eyes that rip wide open before her rigid body hits the tiles with a loud thump that echoes from the hollow walls. Parseltongue that slides from his lips in a perfect hissing sound, almost like a song while a giant snake coils at his feet, reaches up to the ceiling and the gut-wrenching feeling of his stomach that he needs a solution, that he needs to fix this, panic, terror. Hagrid's face as soon as he realises that he'll be expelled, the spider that runs with high speed through Hogwarts and his own hollow laugh, evil, cruel, icy.

Then he's in the laboratory again, bright whitish neon light and he's screaming, raging while pain shoots through his head in waves.

_(for the fragment of a second he can see gentle, slender fingers before an injection puts him back to sleep)_

* * *

><p><strong>iv.<strong>

He can hear the clicking of heels on marble tiles that wake him up and there's a voice who asks for his name, warm like honey, and he wants to answer, shapes the syllables on his lips but not a single tone leaves. Her eyes soften up, just a tad before she pushes the button again and pain flares through his head, spins his world and his memory starts to run backwards in crooked bright flashes, fits, starts, hard as the noise of colliding spells, new memories, old memories, they ghost like smoke of a forest fire and there's something he can almost touch, almost smell, almost, almost, his memory runs backwards faster, faster and -

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

Tom opens his eyes.

Data. Files. Pictures. A mansion. A family. Little Hangleton. A man with his face. Older. Arrogant. Tom Sr.'s skin that ashens as soon as the green light hits him in the face, his eyes that protrude from the impact of the curse and the shrill sound of his grandmother's voice that pierces his eardrums. The bodies of his grandparents fall right beside his father on the magenta Persian carpet and bright islamic green light glistens on the top of his wand, little dust grains full of magic.

Then he's in the laboratory again, bright white neon light and he's screaming, raging while pain shoots through his head in waves.

_(for the fragment of a second he can see wild caramel locks that fall open in cascades over her shoulders before an injection puts him back to sleep)_

* * *

><p><strong>vi.<strong>

"What's your name," a voice slurs in his doze, a state between half-asleep and half-awake where his memories haunt him while they change and alter, transform their shape but he can't answer, can't find the words before he falls back into the land of dreams again.

* * *

><p><strong>vii.<strong>

Tom opens his eyes.

Data. Files. Pictures. An office. A man. Dumbledore. Lemon drops. Fawkes. A pensieve. Dumbledore's face tells him no, he's not good enough, with sad and tired eyes, disappointment clearly written all over and the diadem feels grave in his pocket, a reminder of an act so cruel that no one would word it out loud. The room of requirement with tons of hidden things, a cabinet, busts of old headmasters, broken and damaged furniture, chipped bottles, bloodstained axes and shelves full of books and tomes and dark arts and his legs find the way on their own, coil around the aisles until the diadem finds its place. There's another curse on his tongue, something as bitter as rejection spices the words and he leaves Hogwarts under Dumbledore's vigilant eyes.

Then he's in the laboratory again, bright white neon light and he's screaming, raging while pain shoots through his head in waves.

_(for the fragment of a second he can see glossy chestnut eyes where the muscles around the eyelids softened up before an injection puts him back to sleep)_

* * *

><p><strong>viii.<strong>

The memories feel like acid rain in his brain and they're slowly killing his mind and wits, burn it to ashes and dust. The neon light flickers alien shades of blue on the sterile room and her voice sounds hollow, far away when she asks, her face above his, "What's your name?"

He needs a second to think straight, needs to gather and assort the informations that floods his system while his pulse throbs rigid in his head, painful to an extreme that makes him want to scream and cry or scratch his own eyes out and the pressure gets worse, pushes him down like an anvil.

He wants to reply but the words die on his lips.

_(she pushes the button a second later and he welcomes the emptiness with open arms)_

* * *

><p><strong>ix.<strong>

Tom opens his eyes.

Data. Files. Pictures. A family. A little boy. Forest green eyes. A terrible bone-splitting shriek. Perfect lush lawn. James Potter's remonstrative valour that breaks as soon as the bright green hits him, his glasses snapping under the heels of his Italian boots. Lily Potter's banshee-screech that echoes in unison with his triumphant cackle, loud and disgusting and the boy looks up, luminous green orbs with freckles of pistachio and chartreuse while his small fingers try to snatch the end piece of his wand, catch small shining grains of magic. He lifts his wand and-

Then he's in the laboratory again, bright white neon light and he's screaming, raging while pain shoots through his head in waves.

_(for the fragment of a second he can see smooth and tender lips that whisper his name comforting and reassuring before an injection puts him back to sleep)_

* * *

><p><strong>x.<strong>

There's a bright white neon bulb that casts unnatural shades of blue on sterile walls and metallic instruments; it catches in dark hazelnut curls that fall in wild cascades around a feminine face with healthy rosy cheeks and a pointed nose, small and delicate. Her eyes are hidden behind a small pair of glasses but he can see daps of caramel and walnut in her brown and when she speaks, her shoulders move under the thick fabric of her white doctor tunic.

"What's your name?"

"Tom," his head feels heavy, far too clunky and he closes his eyes to reduce the agony but his voice breaks, trembles and he adds again, frantically, "My name is Tom."

"Hello Tom", she takes a deep breath and the lines around her fine curved lips soften up.

He opens his mouth to shape a reply but the words fall silent on his lips, scratch at the back of his throat, rasps like sandpaper over his vocal chords. There are delicate slender fingers running through his sweaty dark hair and her fingernails fondle his scalp slowly, almost soothing. When he wets his lips the saliva burns caustic in the back of his mind, in his throat and when he whispers the words feel heavy and tardy, "Hello Hermione."

She smiles, pushes a nearby button on an engine and his world starts to spin again.


End file.
